


Mine, Yours

by Insomnia_Productions



Series: The Rat Revolution (Mat/Rand Drabbles) [3]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Book 02: The Great Hunt, Feat. The Apple Tree, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, Sort Of, based on the futures from the Portal Stones, but he tries and that's what matters, but like awkward humor, does this count as, in a roundabout way, in summary Mat Cauthon Cannot Emotion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 10:33:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_Productions/pseuds/Insomnia_Productions
Summary: He finds himself looking at Rand, taking in every detail, mapping the image of him so firmly into his mind, like an anchor: this is a life in which Rand is still here.This is a life in which he did not—will not, willnever—make that choice.//After the possible futures he sees for himself in the Portal Stones, Mat just wants to make Rand believe that he would never betray him, but he ends up revealing more than he intended to—more than he realized was true until this moment.





	Mine, Yours

When they come for him, they come with chains. Black chains, shining as if recently polished, yet bearing the marks of repeated use. Special chains, they say. Chains that held Logain Ablar, Raolin Darksbane, Yurian Stonebow. Rand al’Thor. 

Oh, Light, Rand al’Thor. 

Rand, who grew up with him. Rand, who wears fancy coats and gets sent invitations from the King of Cairhien. Rand who can channel, who can go mad, who can kill them all with a touch of his finger if the mood strikes him—

Rand, who trembles and cries as they lead him away, pulling back with every step, struggling against the chains that bind his wrists and cause his whole body to sag close to the ground. But what can one boy do against an army of Aes Sedai? What is one channeler amongst a hundred? 

_ (They are more dangerous than he is.)  _

Mat watches and he cannot speak. He does not need to speak; he does not need to say goodbye. He knows he will see Rand again. 

_ (But it won’t be Rand, will it?) _

He will see Rand again in the courtyard of Tar Valon, and he will hide in the shadows when Perrin and Egwene rush to greet him, and he will watch them try for minutes, for hours, for days and weeks and months, to get Rand to speak, then to smile, then only to stand, and he will know—

_ (Your fault.)  _

He will know that they will never succeed, that the light will never return to those grey eyes, grey like stones, grey like the dead, and he will know—

_ (Your fault.)  _

He will know, at last, what it feels like for a channeler to lose the One Power because that is how it feels to lose Rand— 

_ (Your fault.)  _

He cannot watch this, cannot live through this again, cannot go another lifetime, another two lifetimes, another hundred lifetimes feeling this way and knowing it was  _ all his fault _ , and he turns away, squeezes his eyes shut—

And wakes up. 

The grimy grey ceiling, barely illuminated by the moonlight in the open window, comes into view. Mat tracks the cracks spiderwebbing across it. Almost unconsciously, he brings two shaking hands to his mouth, biting back the gasps that threaten to escape. He waits a minute, two minutes, but his breaths do not steady and he is afraid to close his eyes. He cannot, will not, see it again. Not again. 

_ It was only one future,  _ he reminds himself fiercely,  _ only one.  _ Still, sleep is lost to him now. Perrin’s cloak lies in a heap on the floor, a barrier between their heads. Standing up in silence, he wraps it around his shoulders and steps outside. 

Rand is there, because of course he is. He sits on a boulder, his back to the abandoned cottage they have taken refuge in, head tilted up to the stars. He’s still wearing that red coat, with the golden embroidery and the herons. On principle, on instinct, Mat starts to scoff at that—but something about the scene gives him pause. He looks at Rand, at his posture, at the sword resting against his hip, at the way the moonlight traces his jaw. He really does look like a lord. 

_ The Light burn him for that,  _ Mat thinks, half-heartedly.  _ And burn me for thinking it.  _

Another moment passes, and Mat is about to go back inside, when Rand speaks without turning. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” 

Mat folds his arms, glaring at Rand’s back. Typical lords. The least he could do is turn his head. Not bothering to hide his scorn, he answers, “No, I’m just here because I love the bloody stars so much.” 

At this, Rand looks around. “Mat,” he says, like it’s a vow, like it’s a new idea and he isn’t sure what to do with it. Mat supposes that’s fair. They haven’t been alone together in weeks, not since Rand revealed that he could channel and disappeared. He wonders if Rand lived the same futures he did. He wonders what it is about that thought that frightens him.

Mat must have been silent for too long, because Rand gives a small shrug and turns back to the sky. The silence stretches between them, so tight, so thick that Mat thinks he could string a bow with it. He wants to walk away, but his feet remain rooted, like in the dream, like in all those futures he lived. He finds himself looking at Rand, taking in every detail, mapping the image of him so firmly into his mind, like an anchor: this is a life in which Rand is still here. 

This is a life in which he did not—will not, will  _ never _ —make that choice. 

An image flashes in Mat’s mind. Can he call it a memory if it has not happened yet? It certainly feels like a memory, the memory of Rand’s face as he is taken away, as he twists back, just once, and meets Mat’s eyes, looking scared and confused and angry and lost and  _ betrayed.  _ Before he can stop the words, Mat blurts out, “You believe me, right?” 

“What?” Rand turns fully this time, facing Mat with a frown. “Believe you about what?” 

Oh, Light, why did he have to speak? Mat does not want to have this conversation. Still, some part of him burns, yearning to know the answer, so he grits his teeth and asks, “You believe me that I would never betray you. Right?” 

Rand blinks, and then his frown deepens. “Is this about the Portal Stones, Mat? I told you that I believed you. Of course I believe you.” 

Mat feels himself nodding. “Good. Because it’s the truth. I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Rand says gently, like  _ he’s _ the one who needs to assure  _ Mat _ , burn him, and Mat can’t take it. 

“You know why, right?” he demands, and immediately wishes he hadn’t spoken. Even so, when Rand shakes his head, Mat finds himself continuing. “It’s because I don’t care. I don’t care that you can channel. I  _ don’t _ .” A small voice in his head whispers,  _ yes you do.  _ He blocks that voice out.  _ I don’t.  _

Rand is frowning again. “It’s okay, Mat. You don’t need to—it’s okay that you don’t like it. I don’t like it, either.” 

Mat struggles with the urge to stamp his foot. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Rand is giving him an out, but, burn him, there are things Mat needs to say. “I  _ don’t _ care that you can channel,” he insists. “And I don’t care that you might be an Aiel, or a lord, or the Dragon Reborn. It doesn’t matter, none of it.” His mouth is running on its own, now. Mat listens to it go in wonder. “It doesn’t matter to me. You’re still Rand, underneath it all. You’re still mine.” 

_ What.  _

Rand’s eyes widen, and Mat remembers. A summer evening. A setting sun. A secret moment in an apple tree, at a time when words had been easier and life had been simpler. 

It dawns on him, disconcertingly, that he  _ means it.  _

Steeling himself, he forces the words out. “You’re mine, okay? I said it when we were ten—I said it before anyone else, so they can’t have you. Not the Aes Sedai, not the Whitecloaks, not even the bloody Dark One Himself, burn him!” 

Slowly, a smile grows on Rand’s lips. “Yours,” he says, slowly, experimentally, and it sounds like a promise, and it sounds like a wish. “That sounds… good.” 

“Well. Good.” Mat shifts on his feet. Nods. “Good, then.” 

He shuffles back a few steps. Rand is staring at the ground, a curious little smile on his lips. Mat shuffles some more, then turns and stomps back towards the cottage. The Light burn Rand, and the Light burn himself, and the Light burn whoever it was who invented human conversation. 

He puts his hand on the doorknob.

“Mat?” 

Mat turns too quickly, and then kicks himself for doing it.  _ Blood and ashes, what is wrong with me?  _

Rand is smiling that curious smile at him, his eyes the color of moonlight. “What does that make you?”

“What?” 

“If I’m yours,” Rand says slowly, “what does that make you?” 

Ah. That’s a good question. Mat hadn’t thought of that.

Rand seems to read this in his face because his smile widens, eyes crinkling at the corners. He asks, “Does that make you mine?” 

All of a sudden, the full meaning of the words hits Mat. His face burns. Somehow, he manages a shrug. “If you want.” 

Rand nods, still smiling. Mat shrugs again, hand still fidgeting with the doorknob. 

“Right,” he says. “That’s settled, then.” 

“Right,” Rand echoes. 

“Goodnight,” Mat says, because he can think of nothing else. 

“Goodnight,” Rand says softly. 

Mat goes inside and shuts the door. Leaning against it, he lets out a long, slow breath.  _ What in the Light was that? _

Well, whatever it was… Mat feels a smile creeping up on him. Whatever it was… it wasn’t exactly  _ bad. _ Picking his way between sleeping bodies, Mat drops Perrin’s cloak beside him and lays down. Through the cracks and holes in the wooden door, he thinks he can make out Rand’s red coat. 

_ Mine,  _ he thinks.

There were more futures in that Stone than just the one. 

_ Yours,  _ he thinks. 

More futures than the one. 

He closes his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, writing about these two is much harder than fanfiction usually is for me. Something just keeps making me second guess every line... *mutters* _ta'veren_
> 
> This is my third Rat Drabble, but my second installation of the one-drabble-per-book plan I have going, so, hey, stay tuned for Book 3! 
> 
> So, on all of these drabbles, I always ask people to come chat with me on Tumblr about WoT/cauthor, and some of you actually did!! I'm making some great new friends in this way, so, please, if you like this fic and this ship and you want to chat, hit me up @insomnia-productions on Tumblr!


End file.
